


Twice Blest

by masterofesoterica



Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofesoterica/pseuds/masterofesoterica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antonio lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice Blest

 

Antonio looked over the water from the balcony of his room some floors up. In the neighbouring room, he could hear the entwined laughter of Portia and Bassanio. The night was dark and the moon a bare sliver in the sky. His cup of wine was empty. He thought of the court again, and the unsmiling glint in the young lawyer’s eye. He imagined it again now, the flat light in Portia’s eye as she looked up at her husband, her pink lips curled up in the corners. But of course, she would not be looking at her husband like that. She’d be all brightness and warmth, her eyes as open and deep as forest springs.

He was getting older, and the days seemed dreary. He was surrounded with such beauty and wealth and friends. He was invited to feast nightly at Belmont, and a further invitation to stay the night was extended every day to him.

“Stay, for the love you bear me, Antonio,” Bassanio would say.

And he would agree, taking up the room adjacent to his hosts’. Lying there, listening to the waters lap the shores around Belmont, he often thought of the house he kept in Venice, the empty rooms, the cold hearths, the bed not slept in.

In the day, he had his business in the city. In the evening, he made his way to Belmont to drink and to sup with his acquaintances—in truth, Bassanio’s friends. He was a dour presence at the table, drinking too little and conversing too little; he was without a lady on his arm and he knew how others must have seen him—a man at the cusp of old age, without women or children to spend his well-earned money on. Some might have wondered silently, wouldn’t it have been better if only he’d died—if only he had that pound of flesh carved from his body?

He wondered too. That place over his breast itched with phantom pain.

“The time for such boyish matters is done, sweet Antonio,” Bassanio had said when Antonio once made the drunken mistake of stumbling to the adjacent room. “But you know the love between us shall never be diminished.”

Then Portia had come, in a gown of sheer silk, smiling her open smile that seemed to say, “I forgive all—if there were anything to forgive”. Bassanio must have had told her of the things that had passed between them—childish things indeed, to be set aside when a man is married to a woman he valued more than life—childish things that sat fondly in the heart but did not trouble a man’s mind. Antonio had retreated to his rooms with Portia’s chaste kiss good night warm upon his lips and Bassanio’s soft laugh heavy in his head.

Antonio set the empty cup on a table and called for a page. He could not stand their particular brand of kindness any longer. He would return to his Venetian house; he would call his servants to set a table and make his bed. He would turn his attention to his business, and leave Bassanio and Portia to their perfect, idle happiness. He had the respect and even liking of his fellows. His business had flourished in the wake of his notoriety—Christian merchants were quick to praise him, whilst the Jewish merchants avoided him cautiously.

He had his life, did he not? Was that not enough for him?

Bassanio had proved his love to Antonio. It was undeniable. But it had tasted like goodbye. He had confirmation of it at every step, even before Bassanio had told him and Portia had sealed it with a kiss. Childish things indeed—it had never been a childish thing for Antonio. He had grown up holding the secret, chasing his desires in hidden places, fearing always the retribution of his God and his church if he were discovered. When, in the flush of youth, Bassanio had expressed his love and longing for the older cousin who had been his protector since childhood, Antonio had accepted it only tentatively, disbelieving at first. Bassanio had insisted and persisted, but Antonio was always cautious. At what time had he, Antonio, become the one who forgot himself?

He is tired of doubting for his soul every time he examines his words and deeds. He is tired of leaning on his knees and looking to his God and bargaining with Him.

He is older and he is tired. There was nothing more for him in this half-sodden city. He had his life—but what was that worth, after all.


End file.
